


Figurine

by Cappuccinomuki



Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, Thoughts of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 12:28:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13570593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cappuccinomuki/pseuds/Cappuccinomuki
Summary: All figurines Angor Rot carved were not of golems.





	Figurine

**Author's Note:**

> A little something I wrote way back when the Trollhunters was first cartooned. This has been gathering computer dust on my memory stick for a long time.

The blade chipped against the rock, the rough edges already smoothed by the constant scraping of the metal.

_Swoosh swoosh._

The stone gained shape. With a blow a dust of flickers flew into the air.

_Scrape scrape._

A steady rhythm in an otherwise silent space. Orange eyes focused on the side of the half-carved figure, a clawed fingertip brushing near affectionately against its surface.

_Scrape scrape._

This one wasn’t a golem. It didn’t have the bulky form or runes etched into its chest. No, this was something far more precious. Something _personal_ to the hunter.

_Clink._

A piece fell off, its decent through the air near deafening, the thump of its contact with the soft grass at the Hunter’s feet like an explosion. A fingernail pried loose a chunk; ever so small that a normal being would’ve ignored it but far too large for the artisan to leave it there if he ever hoped to call his work perfect.

Perfection. Completion.

That was what the undead hunter yearned for. What he truly _yearned_ for. To have that gaping hole, deep within his chest and core filled again. To feel something again, anything besides the hollowing emptiness.

_Swipe swipe._

The blade was tucked into its holster behind the hunter’s back, the statue brought eye level for inspection and near awe.

No, it was not the bulky frame of a golem, nor the slender form of the fleshbag child with the Daylight at his command.

And no, oh no, it was not the image of a shadowed, robed figure with a small, petite hand with long, sharp fingers that had betrayed and commanded him for so long.

Oh, no.

It was not the form of the fleshy girl who had stolen his staff.

No.

The stone figurine had long, backwards curving horns, a cloak lined with sharp blades around the neckline and a sickening smirk on his face. _Yes,_ the impure that now held the Inferna Copula on his wretched finger!

The hunter shifted his gaze from his work and peered past the few trees and across the darkened yard. There, in his little fleshbag house, the impure toyed with that… that... what was it.. pen? Again. Through the stillness of the night the hunter could hear faint music, the same as in that school of his, playing triumphantly.

The orange eyes narrowed on the faint gleam of the ring. In the darkness of the night and the low lighting of the house it was clear. The pulsing, the light, so steady, so alluring, inviting, so damn close yet so far. He knew he couldn’t take it, bend that finger off of that wretched changeling’s hand with a snap, and pull his long-sought soul from his bleeding knuckles.

No, he could not.

Not _yet._

Angor turned his gaze to the Stricklander figurine on his palm, the form carved out of a piece he had ripped off of himself just for the sake of the delusional changeling’s statue.

Every curve of the horns, every blade along the neckline skilfully carved. Every line, every single silhouette shape.

The hunter’s hand crept instinctively to the blade sheathed securely in its holster.

_Crack_.

There is rested, the tip of the blade. That cold, smooth, glistering piece of metal in the chest of the stone figure.

A content snarl, like advancing thunder, rose from the undead’s chest, deep from the pit of feelings that weren’t supposed to be. His fingers coiled and uncoiled around the handle of the knife, savouring the contact as his smirk grew along with the crack in the statuette’s chest.

A push. Crick, _crack_. And the figurine was split in two.

Oh, how the hunter could already taste it, _feel_ it, the immense pleasure he would have when his blade would _gnaw_ the real changeling in two.

No. No, he would not give the impure the quick end of the creeper’s sun or the Daylight’s edge. No, he would savour the kill. He would watch intently, memorize every flicker of pain and fear and the horrid realisation of death, which would cross the impure’s face. He would watch as the life drained from the half-troll, from the accursed eyes, watch as the blood would run like a river from his chest and pool around him. He would drain all life from him, _slowly_ , and gulp it down with glee.

He would watch and enjoy. Enjoy the grip of his fingers around the handle of his blade, cherish the pulsating warm embrace of his ring around his finger. His soul in his grasp. Finally.

His soul. His body. Perfect. Complete.

But for now, the figurine would have to do. With a low snarl he removed the blade and crushed whatever was left of the statuette, dust sweeping from between his hold.

For now, he had to wait. He had to be patient, like a hunter cornering its prey. His chance would come. He knew it. Only patience was needed.

Though, as he turned to retreat from the rising sun he doubted that this night’s figurine would be the last of its kind.

 


End file.
